


like woven threads

by Kierkegarden



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1899 era, Biweekly Prompt: Wizarding Fashion, Fluff, M/M, Uniform Kink, You can pry the color gold from my gold dead fingers, fairytales - Freeform, myth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 07:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: Albus tries on Gellert's old Durmstrang robes.(or 2.1k of waxing poetic about wizarding fashion and muggle myth, with no point, no plot, and no real purpose other than I made this prompt so I could fill it. Written for The Greater Good biweekly prompt May 9-23.)





	like woven threads

In the Bagshot library, mid day sun streamed through the half-yawning window, lighting Gellert’s hair incandescent. It made Albus think of the muggle fairytale his mother would read to them as children, the one about the miller’s daughter who gave up her first born to spin straw to gold. Nowhere within the array of wizarding mythos laid out before him could he find something that wicked or strange.

Now that he was living in the hotbed of myth, in the tender cradle of magic, Albus understood that it wasn’t so strange in the grand scheme of things. An angel had crashed into his childhood home.

“What?” Gellert’s voice broke through his fog, and Albus felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He had just been caught staring.

“I’ve just been thinking that perhaps in another life, I would have taken my interest in transfiguration to become a thread-weaver.”

Gellert looked at him sideways. “Surely a waste of your talents.”

“Not surely,” Albus ignored Gellert’s eyes tracing his fingertips, as they delicately slid a bookmark into the crook of Beetle the Bard. He let them glide instead across Gellert’s forehead, brushing one golden curl from his eyes. “It’s a shame that Hogwarts was so restrictive. The same uniform day after day. And the robes are so dark! It was murder in the springtime and early fall. I should have liked to experiment a bit.”

“At least they were robes,” Gellert bit his lip, “with wizarding fashion as it is, blending lines with those restrictive waistcoats that muggles wear. And vests, I think it is!”

“You’re wearing a vest.”

Gellert looked down at himself. Indeed, he was wearing a vest of sorts, a double breasted number in deep sapphire, which clung skin-tight over his light cotton summer robe.

“Trousers, then,” He shrugged, “I always seem to get the two confused.”

Albus rolled his eyes to the heavens. He knew quite well that Gellert knew what trousers were. It was impossible not to in the modern wizarding world, a world that, in the interest of survival, had been gravitating towards muggle fashion trends. Practically every wizard his age owned at least two pairs of trousers. Albus had even seen Gellert opt for leggings, which were essentially the same thing.

“Anyway,” said Albus, clearing his throat, “I would quite like to turn your hair into gold thread. Weave it into a crimson robe, have you model it for me half-undone…”

Gellert’s hands drifted to his hair protectively. “You’d have me model bald-headed?”

Albus laughed, taking Gellert’s hands in his own, as they reluctantly relaxed. His eyes too were reluctant, torn from the open spellbook on the long table before him.

“There are ways,” said Albus, “with transfiguration, to reproduce and purify. All I’d need is one hair, perhaps some silk, select alloys, and time -- lots of time -- to perfect my work.”

Albus watched Gellert’s reluctance perk into satisfaction, no doubt picturing a robe modeled off of his hair. If ego could take the place of will as fuel for alchemy, Albus was sure that Gellert would have long surpassed him. Will, these days, was weak between the two of them.

He assured himself that there was time, that there would be days on days to enjoy Gellert in this new world they were crafting. Perhaps even days to delve into unexplored hobbies, to grow old together -- Albus shuddered. The lingering wound of his mother’s untimely death still haunted him like a spectre.

Death didn’t phase Albus. Not so much as life without Gellert did.

“Come on,” the other boy must have caught something in Albus’s eye other than certitude, his voice concerned, “I have something I’d like to show you. It’s just upstairs waiting in my bedroom --”

“My darling Gellert,” Albus feigned shock, shaking all hesitation from his expression, “I have already become quite acquainted with your bed and it’s only one in the afternoon.”

Gellert clicked his tongue. “You are depraved.”

“As you are distracting.”

“I?” Gellert pulled Albus to his feet and out of the Bagshot library, “You are the one on about weaving hair into gold thread, I am only finishing your thought.”

 

Looking from his left to his right as if in the pursuit of safety, Gellert paused before pulling Albus limb over limb up the stair. Albus was always impressed with Bathilda’s abode. It was far grander than the Dumbledore estate and always cleaner. The large open entryway, dark wood and stone gave it the appearance of something far more magnificent than a family farmhouse. Not to mention the twist of the staircase and the cases upon cases of books and artifacts. Albus could have spent hours examining them all, had there not been someone far more interesting as his host.

When they got to Gellert’s room, his companion finally stopped to catch him breath. Albus climbed on the indeed familiar bed, leaning back against the headboard to watch as Gellert climbed on the little brown stepping stool to reach the top shelf of his armoir. It was strange that moments like these were the only times that Albus even considered how small Gellert was, his personality more than making up for their height difference.

“Do you need a hand?” Albus let out a little laugh, muffled through his nose. Rarely would he describe Gellert as cute, but there was something decidedly adorable about the future Premier of the wizarding world on his tip toes, straining himself on a stepping stool.

Gellert shot him a look. “Quiet, you. And close your eyes, if you can help to tear them away.”

“Very well,” said Albus, “but if you choose to pull a prank on me, Mr. Grindelwald, do know that you have met your pranking match.”

From behind closed eyes, Albus could hear a tight little laugh and a minute’s worth of rustling. He could hear the floorboards creak as Gellert walked towards him and the heaviness of something being laid across the blanket at his feet.

“There,” Gellert said, at last, “You may look now.”

Albus obeyed, the light now harsh on adjusting pupils, as his eyes dropped from Gellert -- sun-dappled nymph that begged their attention -- to the deep red robes draped over the far side of the bed. Albus blinked. Woven throughout the crimson fabric was thread of shimmering gold, lighter and more fine than Gellert’s hair. They just barely glinted in the sun, as Albus admired them from different angles, shimmering like iridescent spider silk.

“It’s just what I imagined,” said Albus, truly breathless, “How did you manage to come up with this in just under a minute?”

“I didn’t,” Gellert said, “It was already done. A year ago, it came to me in a Vision. Or perhaps it was a dream.”

Lifting the robes between his fingers, Albus let the thick fabric slide between his thumb and forefinger. He caressed the diagonal leather belt, the rich soft rabbit fur along the collar. Finally his hands came to a patch on the breast -- a familiar crest.

“Durmstrang,” Albus mused, “How much of this is your own design and how much of it is simply the uniform?”

Gellert took a seat beside him, gazing fondly over his handiwork.

“I am glad I had a crimson base.”

“They let you, I mean, customize the thing?”

“On the contrary,” Gellert said with a smug little laugh, “They forbade me from ever wearing it again.”

“And so you were expelled,” said Albus, suddenly quite light headed and giddy, struggling to find breath around his words, “simply for making yourself too irresistible.”

“Among other things.”

“Hm.” Albus didn’t particularly want to consider the other things. He knew that Gellert wouldn’t tell him anyway, and there was some deep, honest place within himself that knew he was better off ignorant. Curiosity be damned, just this once. Gellert was entitled to his past shrouded in darkness. Here he was, beaming in the light of day over his golden-threaded robe and that, Albus thought, was all that mattered.

“So I’ve been cheated out of my own design,” he said, grinning, “Do I at least get to see it modeled?”

“I don’t think you’ve been cheated. I think it says a lot that you were my muse before I ever knew you.”

Albus frowned. “Great minds think alike.”

“Ah,” Gellert beamed once again and Albus was lured into reciprocating, “You’ve no experience with a Seer. With a Seer, great minds become intertwined. Like --”

“Woven thread,” Albus mused.

“You see?” Gellert’s hand joined Albus’s own, fingertips hovering just above the Durmstrang crest. Time was meaningless, Albus decided. He could not have possibly estimated how long they sat there, magic coursing through the brief overlap of fingers. Time was hazy and golden. When he had first met Gellert -- two weeks? Months? Years? Decades? ago -- Gellert had insisted that he had met Albus long before. Sight, he had explained, rendered time cyclical. Somehow, Albus had believed him. Somehow, Albus still did.

“Do I have to beg to see you put it on?” Albus’s voice came out gruff and strained. He could feel the color go to his cheeks once again. When had he become so depraved?

Gellert laughed. “Actually, I think I know a far more fitting model. Stand up.”

Albus did, once again, as he was told. He wanted to voice concerns about the robes not fitting, about the crimson color clashing with his auburn hair, but instead he was silent. He let Gellert unbutton his waistcoat, remove his simple tunic, and unclasp his leggings, all while standing spellbound. Not long ago, Albus would have been embarrassed -- his gangly frame giving him the appearance of someone who had grown up too fast. Now, Albus wore it with pride because he knew that it was true.

Humming to himself, Gellert unhooked both the leather belt and the cloth one. He heaved as he lifted the unbuttoned uniform over Albus’s frame. Albus was surprised at how heavy it felt against his bare skin, the softness of the fur and the itchiness of the wool. His nipples immediately tightened into sharp buds, pressing into the sturdy fabric.

In Gellert’s bedroom mirror, he admired the shimmering golden threads, like stars on a crimson sky, as Gellert worked meticulously on the buttons. The robe was extremely tight, emphasizing Albus’s willowy frame before flaring out just below his knee. The padding on the shoulders made him appear sturdier than he actually was.

“You have outdone yourself,” Albus whispered, Gellert’s face inches from his own as he pulled the leather belt taught below Albus’s armpit, “You have made me become enraptured by myself, or rather, by the glint of you that I see in myself. Do you intend to fully possess me by the time we are done?”

“Could be fun,” Gellert shot him a wicked grin, “But no, I think. The gold is only beautiful against the crimson.”

 

In the muggle fairytale, Albus remembered, the miller had given his daughter to the king, boasting that she could spin straw into gold. The claim, of course, turned out to be false. The miller’s daughter sat there weeping in the dark of the horse barn, drowning in the fallout of her father’s promise, knowing she could never do what he had asked of her.

The strange man had shown himself just then, as if out of nowhere. He could give her the power to weave straw into gold, he only asked of her one thing.

“You must give me your first born child,” Albus could remember the exact voice his mother had given the character, somewhere more along the lines of mischievous than evil.

Her first born child! A child himself at the time, Albus could not dream of such a thing. The request was as wicked as it was strange.

 

In transfiguration, and in fact in all forms of alchemy, the principle of balance relied on equivalent exchange. Long before he had known Gellert, but perhaps not before Gellert had known him, Albus had known this. He was drawn to it for that reason. Sacrifice for reward. It was so logical -- so _human_ \-- that even muggle texts acknowledged the dance.

Sacrifice for reward. A slight change of principles for eternal understanding. Crimson for gold. Sadness for happiness. A first-born child for a way out. Gellert for Albus. Albus for Gellert. Before long, the scale would tip. Albus knew this in the same part of his mind that wanted to know, despite himself, why Gellert had been expelled from Durmstrang.

For now, time was meaningless. For now, days were as golden as summer should be.

Looking at his own glimmering reflection, Albus understood, for the first time in his life, why the miller’s daughter had made that sacrifice. He leaned down to bestow a tender kiss on Gellert’s curls.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “I should never want to take it off.”


End file.
